


Devil's Moon

by dear_tiger



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-16
Updated: 2011-11-16
Packaged: 2017-10-26 03:45:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/278308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dear_tiger/pseuds/dear_tiger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While spying on Sam in a little bar by the border, Dean strikes up a conversation with a stranger. (Stanford Era)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Devil's Moon

**Author's Note:**

> Beta by: monsterfan

They say _El Coco_ is a haunted bar. It’s an old joint almost all the way by the border, the kind where they serve tequila and Mexican beer and throw sawdust on the floor, where the main room lights are dim and the tables have mismatched lamps atop them, and where the jukebox plays just the right kind of music.

The local legend has it that one night a beautiful and vain girl came here to dance and stole all the men’s attention. She whirled and whirled around the floor, and everybody wanted a turn with her, forgetting their girlfriends. Then at midnight, a handsome stranger in snakeskin boots walked in and cut in front of the line to dance with the girl. He was the best dancer, absolutely tireless, and he charmed the girl right away. But when she looked down at his feet, she saw that he no longer had the boots and that one of his legs ended with a goat’s hoof and the other with a chicken foot. It was the Devil himself who came for the beautiful girl. They say that every once in a blue moon, when it’s high and ripe, he comes back.

“It’s just a superstition, _compadre,_ ” says the guy seating next to Dean at the bar. He’s dressed like a pirate, like some escapee from a sea fair who made it too far from the coast in one night. He lifts his Jolly Roger eye patch and winks at Dean with a very blue – and obviously intact – eye. “Don’t look so worried.”

“Who says I’m worried?”

“It’s like you’re just waiting for the Devil to stroll in any minute.”

The moon is ripe and bright tonight, outshining even the desert stars. It has a weird bluish shade to it, probably from the smoke of distant forest fires that can be smelled on the air. _Every once in a blue moon,_ Dean thinks.

Captain Hook seems to read his mind because he grins and salutes Dean with his glass. His golden tooth gleams in the dark room. Dean doesn’t think it’s painted.

“Dude,” he says. “You take that pirate shit pretty seriously.”

The guy only laughs – a low, rumbling sound that comes almost all the way from his chest. “Which one are you spying on?” he asks.

Dean flushes. “I’m just having a drink.”

“Is it the blonde? She’s pretty. Not yours, I hope.”

Dean risks a glance over his shoulder, out of the shadows of his corner. He suddenly feels like the music is blaring too loud, but not loud enough to drown out the tap-tap of the girl’s espadrilles or her breathless laughter. She’s tall, almost as tall as her partner who whirls and whirls her around – confident, like he can never get tired or miss a step. The girl is definitely the most beautiful one in the room but she’s not the reason Dean is lurking in the corner, masquerading as a hobo. He risks one glance at her partner’s face, at the slanted eyes and the broadest smile, and he looks away. That kid has instincts of a bloodhound: he’d be on Dean in a second if he felt himself being stared at, if only he wasn’t so wrapped up in his girl.

“Ah,” says the pirate. “Well, she is the prettiest one here tonight. Are you hunting the Devil?”

“He’s no Devil.”

“No.” The golden tooth catches light again, and Dean wishes the guy would stop smiling so much and drawing attention to them. The pirate outfit alone is quite enough already, without the added flashes of dental treasure. “I don’t see any hooves. Do you?”

He has no hooves and no chicken feet, Dean should know. He used to play with those toes – ten of them, so tiny and perfectly rounded.

The pirate is looking at him like he thinks it’s Dean’s turn to tell a story, but damned if Dean is going to start spilling his guts to a random Captain Hook wannabe in a random bar on the night of the blue moon.

Then again, he’s good for company. “Next round’s on me,” Dean says. “What’re you drinking?”

“Rum.” Typical.

Dean gestures to the bartender, not wanting to speak up because Sam will know his voice, no matter how in love and out of his head he might be.

“Brothers?” says the pirate. Dean shoots him a suspicious look and the guy shrugs. “I’ve been around, _compadre,_ seen my share of heartbreaks. I know that not all of them are about a pretty girl.”

 _What the hell,_ Dean thinks. “He’s smart. Got a full ride to Stanford. He’s got his own life to live, I guess.”

Dean can’t blame anyone for wanting freedom. He’s twenty four, and he knows what bones smell like when they burn. He knows how a freshly dug grave always fills up with water and how earthworms squirm away from the shovel. He can tell if a gun is loaded by the weight of it in his hand. He can put in stitches like an emergency room surgeon. These are the things Sam wants to be free of, and Dean could never blame him except maybe a little bit.

“And you’re keeping an eye on him?” says the pirate. “Making sure nothing bad is gonna happen to your baby brother?”

Dean smirks. “Someone’s gotta make sure the Devil doesn’t steal him away, you know?” Wouldn’t anyone want a piece of that? Dean would, if he was the Devil. “I know what his feet look like but I can’t vouch for the girl he’s dancing with.”

The guy laughs thunderously, drawing the attention of the group of college kids Sam came here with. Dean hunches his shoulders but Sam doesn’t turn his way.

“Come on, man, you’re blowing my cover. It wasn’t that funny.”

“Stop worrying about the Devil, _compadre._ ”

“I dunno, man, the moon is ripe and bright and blue.”

“And your god is with you tonight. The Devil’s not gonna get you or your brother.”

 _That’s just fucking great._ The last thing Dean needs is one of those Bible-thumping freaks to tell him that there’s a guy in the sky who gives a crap about Dean personally. “Look, I mean no disrespect, but spare me the sermon. I don’t believe in God.”

“Who said anything about the big man? I said ‘your god’”.

Dean rolls his eyes. “I don’t believe in any other either.”

“I know,” says the old man. “But he believes in you.” He leans closer to Dean’s ear, breathing alcohol and sugar, so close that his mustache tickles Dean as he speaks. “He’s a god of atheists and non-believers, of scientists and fake pirates who don’t believe in him but worship him just for shits. You’re his child, Dean-o, and he’ll look after you. Don’t you worry about a thing tonight.”

Dean feels the breath freeze in his throat. “Who--?”

But the old man is already off his seat and walking towards the door, his ridiculous pirate boots clanking with every step. He passes Sam and Sam stops, drop his blonde’s hands and follows the guy with his eyes. He’s gonna turn around, Dean realizes, he’s gonna turn and look at the place the guy just left, and then he’ll recognize Dean. While Sam is distracted, he slips off his chair and escapes into _El Coco_ ’s only bathroom.

Inside, the lights are off. Dean stands in cool blue shadows trying to catch his breath. Sam almost looked straight at him, dammit, and now that he thinks about it, this hobo disguise isn’t so great.

There’s a scratching thought wandering the edges of his consciousness, as if he’s forgetting something important. For the life of him, Dean can’t think of what it is. He hears an engine start outside and pulls himself up to look out the tiny window, to see if maybe it’s Sam leaving with his friends. But it’s just some dusty old pickup, Oregon plates, _FSM 420. I want to believe,_ Dean reads on the bumper sticker, noting the details out of habit.

Out in the bar’s main room, another song starts. With a sigh, Dean slides down the wall and sits on the horrible floor. He can see the blue moon above the highway from this angle. Dean Winchester doesn’t believe in any god but tonight, oddly, he feels protected under this moon, as if nothing bad can touch him or his.

Ten feet away from him, Sam too feels protected, like someone strong, big and powerful is watching over him. Unlike Dean, he’s felt like this most of his life. Unlike Dean, he knows the name of his guardian.

**Author's Note:**

> To eliminate the need for further Google-fu, FSM stands for "Flying Spaghetti Monster". In 2005, the Kansas State Board of Education accepted one of those proposals to teach creationism in high school science classes as a valid, alternative theory to evolution. They received a protest letter from Bobby Henderson, a grad student of physics at the Oregon State University who claimed to be a member of the Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster. Henderson expressed sincere hope that one day students would spend equal amounts of time in biology classes on the study of creationism, evolution and pastafarianism. That's how FSM was born. He is a crack!god of atheists and scientists who don't believe in him but worship him for shits. The original followers of the FSM, according to Henderson, were pirates, and the decrease in their numbers worldwide caused global warming. Henderson also pointed out that Somali, which has the highest number of pirates, also ranks the lowest (or nearly so) in the level of carbon emissions.


End file.
